


The War Outside Our Door

by Vcxahlia



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Hunger Games
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:44:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vcxahlia/pseuds/Vcxahlia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of his hopes were shattered by the cannon blast.</p><p>Phil is a mentor who falls in love with his Tribute. Clint and Natasha aren't the star-crossed lovers of District 12. Nobody gets a happy ending in Panem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The War Outside Our Door

**Author's Note:**

> In case it's not clear in the fic, Phil is twenty-four at the start of the story. Clint is sixteen. There's definitely an age difference there, and Clint is underage when they get together, but nothing is terribly explicit.
> 
> The title comes from Safe & Sound by Taylor Swift and The Civil Wars, because that song makes me sad. Really that's the only reason.
> 
> I really feel like a terrible person for writing this.
> 
> This is the first fic I've actually posted in quite some time, so please let me know what you think.

He had thought that they were safe.  
  
He had thought they could finally be happy.  
  
It was stupid to think that anyone was safe, or that happiness was a remote possibility, but he had. He was stupid like that. In spite of everything, Phil had believed in heroes. That goodness and conviction would win out in the end.  
  
But all of his hopes were shattered by the cannon blast.  
  
➳➳➳  
  
He first met Clint when the boy was a scrawny, awkward sixteen year old. He would have written him off as another hopeless case, another child doomed to die in the Games, if it weren't for the fire in the boy's eyes and the determined set of his jaw. It was wrong, he thought, to want so badly. Clint was a child. But none of them were really children. None of the decade's worth of boys and girls he'd guided to their deaths had ever been children.  
  
Not that it made him feel any better.  
  
The girl, Natasha, was even younger, fifteen. But there was something in her, something under the surface. He knew that she could win. He hated it, because her winning meant Clint dying and the very thought caused a sharp ache in his chest. Still, he had to try to keep someone alive.  
  
He just wished he could make up his mind who.  
  
➳➳➳  
  
It was Natasha who came up with the plan. Phil hadn't even known about it until he watched the interviews and saw Clint, who had been so quiet and gruff until that point, admit to Christine Everhart that he’d had a hopeless crush on a girl in his District, one he now had to kill or be killed by, showing a vulnerable side Phil had worried was lacking. Until he’d seen Natasha, small and wide-eyed with hair like fire, blush and demure and cast flitted glances at Clint as their courtship played out for the Capitol's entertainment.  
  
It was a good strategy, provoking pathos and attention all at once, and Phil was honestly impressed by the acting skills he hadn’t even been aware his young charges possessed. But even Darcy's squealing at how adorable they were and the other mentors grumbling about jealousy and sponsorship didn't soothe the unease in his stomach at the thought of Clint and Natasha playing the star-crossed lovers.  
  
Still, whatever it took to keep them alive.  
  
➳➳➳  
  
He knew they had skills. He had seen it on the train to the Capitol and in their eyes and in the way they held themselves. He’d known, in an intellectual way, that they were fighters.  
  
But seeing Clint with a bow was a revelation.  
  
Natasha was small but fast, graceful and deadly by turns. She could work a knife as easy as breathing, and he had no doubt she could kill without a weapon. Watching her training was like watching art, and he was more certain than ever that this girl could win.  
  
But Clint was something else entirely. It was like his whole body was an extension of the bow. He put his everything into it, and Phil couldn’t help but think that it was breathtaking. Literally, because the first time he saw it, he actually forgot to breathe for a long moment. He hadn’t thought it was possible to be more enamored with this boy than he already was, but apparently he’d been wrong.  
  
He wished they hadn’t been quite so good when he saw their scores, higher than any of the other Tributes. He cursed quietly and hoped that the fire in them would be enough to get them through it.  
  
➳➳➳  
  
There wasn't much privacy in the Capitol. Their lives were forfeit, a source of entertainment for the masses. They existed to be watched.  
  
But there were moments, short though they were, when they could escape it.  
  
Phil wasn't sure what was happening when Clint pulled him aside one night. Natasha had dragged Darcy away, looking up at her with big eyes and speaking with hushed tones about girlish things, capturing the brunette's attention completely. And suddenly Clint and Phil were alone.  
  
He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't the awkward, clumsy press of Clint’s lips against his. He stood there, frozen, unsure of how to respond. As much as he wanted, he knew this could only end in tragedy.  
  
"Out there," Clint said quietly, earnest and so very brave, "I'm going to have to do a lot of things. Nat and I...we have to put on a show. But...before we do that...I just...I wanted my first kiss to be for me. We don't get much in this life. And I just...I wanted that. I'm sorry if-"  
  
When Phil cut the boy's words off with his own lips, dragging the boy into a real kiss, he didn't think he could be faulted for it. He'd have to be completely heartless to resist the boy in that moment. And he wasn't heartless. Stupid and reckless and terribly selfish, but not heartless.  
  
➳➳➳  
  
Phil had been fourteen when he'd won the Games. Nobody had thought much of him, but he'd spent his life being underestimated. His partner, Melinda, had been the one everyone watched, the one everyone thought would win. She had been beautiful and deadly and when he looked at Natasha, a part of him was reminded of her.  
  
Melinda had been incredible, fierce and capable with a violence that could be frightening. She was the one everyone had watched. She was the one who died because she burned too bright and too hot. Even Phil had thought she would win. The idea that he would be the one to survive had never really crossed his mind.  
  
But he had. He was careful and quiet, dangerous in his own way. He had hidden and made traps, improvised weapons and fought viciously when he had to. He worked the arena to his advantage and found safe plants to keep himself alive. He'd survived with the same quiet determination that had served him back in his district.  
  
Melinda had been good, but she'd been too good. There had been a target on her back from the start and one girl, no matter how good, could fall. Phil hadn't killed her. He'd respected her too much for that even if they had never been friends or even close. No, it was a matter of numbers, career Tributes who had ganged up on what they saw as the biggest threat before they were taken out by the one person they had never considered.  
  
Nobody had expected Phil to win, but he had. The only Tribute from Twelve to make it through the Games.  
  
He hoped to change that.  
  
➳➳➳  
  
The Games began and Phil could only watch, face a mask of stoicism, as Clint and Tasha fought. He wished they hadn't gone for the Cornucopia, but he knew they were strong enough to make it out. And he did feel a little better once Clint had a bow in his hands and Tasha had a pair of wickedly sharp knives.  
  
He had to admit that their acting was their best asset, even as he hated watching the blossoming “romance” playing out on the screen. The Capitol ate it up, watching them help each other and fight together. They killed and they watched each others backs and they kissed each other, chastely at first but with growing desperation as the days went on. And every time, Phil could feel the phantom press of Clint’s lips against his own and he prayed that this would get them through it.  
  
And it seemed to work. Clint scored a bad knife wound to the side and Natasha cried and bandaged him up with scraps torn from her shirt and held him until assistance came in the form of balm that sped up the healing of the wound. Natasha got sick and Clint’s ministrations garnered them medicine. And all the while Phil watched, torn between worry that it was working too well, that they really were falling in love, and relief that it was keeping them alive.  
  
Mostly, he just hoped that it would continue to do so.  
  
➳➳➳  
  
In the end it was just the two of them.  
  
Phil’s heart raced as he watched them. He should have been happy. One of his proteges would survive no matter what. But he couldn’t, because either Clint would die, or he’d have to kill Natasha, and Phil was sure that doing so would destroy the boy.  
  
But they stood there, looking at each other, for a moment that felt like an eternity, and then Tasha smiled. It was a sweet, sad smile that broke Phil’s heart a little.  
  
"I don't want to win if it means killing you," she said softly.  
  
"Neither do I," Clint said.  
  
"What if…" She held out her hand and there were berries. Nightlock. Clint stared for a moment, before taking them and Phil’s heart raced. This was a risky gambit. It would never work. And he knew deep down that they weren't bluffing. They really would kill themselves to avoid giving the Gamemakers what they wanted.  
  
"Together?" Clint asked as she dropped half the berries into his hand.  
  
"Together," Natasha agreed.  
  
Phil couldn’t breathe for a long moment, staring at the screen. Then the announcement cut in.  
  
"The winners of the 70th Hunger Games," a voice announced. "Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff."  
  
It had worked. Against all odds it could work. For the first time in days, Phil felt like he could breathe again.  
  
➳➳➳  
  
After, there was a brief respite where they returned to their District, then it was the whirlwind of the Victory Tour. Phil didn't go, but he watched. And somehow this was worse. Because Clint and Natasha had to play their parts. Clint had told him in hushed tones one night that President Fury had threatened them, told them that their relationship had to continue. That any indication that what they had done was for anything other than love would end in both of them dead in a tragic accident.  
  
So they smiled and gazed fondly at each other, and continued acting.  
  
And, at night, Clint had come by Phil's house in the Victor’s Village and kissed him and whispered promises against his skin.  
  
It was stupid and dangerous and so wrong, but Phil didn't care because Clint was alive and wanted him and it felt like this best thing in the world.  
  
He watched as, at the end of the Tour, Clint and Natasha were married in the Capitol. It didn't matter that they were young. It was necessity. It was another scene in the grand production that their lives had become. Phil watched with everyone else, saw them exchange vows and promise themselves to each other. And somehow Phil had known that though Clint spoke the words to his best friend, they were really for him. He knew and he gave his own promises in return.  
  
Natasha might have been Clint’s wife in the eyes of the world at large, but Phil knew the truth. And it was enough.  
  
➳➳➳  
  
The Tour ended and Clint and Natasha returned, and life fell into a strange sort of domesticity. The teenagers kept up the pretence of their marriage, but Clint and Phil managed to steal moments when they could. Phil still felt guilty sometimes for falling in love with a boy eight years younger than him, who hadn't even been old enough for the Reaping when he had fought in the Games. He felt guilty for the risks he allowed Clint to take and the danger the boy put himself in to be with him, but he couldn't help it.  
  
It was like the performance Clint and Natasha had put on. Love made people reckless, and he was no exception.  
  
The three of them formed a strange family. Clint and Tasha moved in with him, telling people how Phil had become like a brother to them when he'd been their Mentor, conveniently omitting how much easier it had made it for Clint to slip into Phil's bed at night. Phil was just grateful for the stolen moments.  
  
He never wore a ring, because that was a little too much risk, but Clint gave him a cord with the fletching from an arrow tied to it, and Phil wore it under his shirts, toying with it when he needed a tangible reminder.  
  
They lived their lives. They trained new Tributes who fought and died. They became complacent, in some ways, and slowly they began to think that maybe they could have this strange, almost happy little life.  
  
They thought, blind with happiness and love and family, that they had forever.  
  
➳➳➳  
  
They got five years.  
  
When the Quarter Quell was announced, the Tributes reaped from past Victors, Phil knew they’d never really had a chance. The Capitol had let them have their time, but they would be punished for their arrogance.  
  
Tasha, the only female Victor from their district would go into the Games. Either Phil or Clint would go with her. And either way, the Capitol would finally have their revenge for the stunt Clint and Tasha had pulled those years ago.  
  
Phil selfishly hoped it was him. He wasn't sure he could watch Clint fight for his life again. Phil himself didn;t have much chance. He hadn't come out of his own games unscathed, left with a persistent limp from an explosion that could have killed him toward the end. He'd be a liability. But as long as Clint was safe, he didn't care.  
  
The days leading up to the Reaping were the worst, the uncertainty and the guilt proving almost too much. Phil made Clint promise not to volunteer if his name was called, promising the same in return, but the both knew it was a lie, that they would never allow the other to go into the Games if they could help it.  
  
The night before the Reaping they fought bitterly, then apologized, clinging to each other, not wanting to leave things between them in a bad place. They knew it was probably their last night together. They would both go to the Capitol no matter what, but they didn't want to take this with them. They made love slowly and silently, and it felt too much like saying goodbye.  
  
Phil hoped and prayed Clint's name would be called, ready to step in, but the words caught in his throat as he heard his own name instead. Almost before the words were out, Clint's voice was ringing out next to him, volunteering. Phil wanted to hate him for it, but he mostly just felt empty.  
  
➳➳➳  
  
They asked Clint, during the interviews, why he hadn't remained behind. Why he'd gone into the Games knowing he or his wife would die. Didn't he want to give Natasha a reason to come home?  
  
He'd smiled, charming and self-deprecating, and told them that, after all they'd been through, he couldn't leave her to go through it alone. That he couldn't stay behind and watch the love of his life fight and maybe even die. And it was true, even if he didn't mean Tasha when he said it. Phil hated him just a little, because Clint had left him to do just that.  
  
Natasha smiled sadly and spoke of how she felt betrayed. That they had done their part and it was supposed to be over. She won them over with talk of how she and Clint had wanted a family. It wasn't true, of course. Even if Phil and Clint had ever considered the option, had ever come to her for that, they would never risk it. The child of two Victors would be too attractive as a Tribute, and they would never knowingly allow for the possibility of their child being forced into the Games.  
  
Phil watched the interviews silently, and gave Darcy a small, tired smile when she gripped his hand in a gesture of support.  
  
➳➳➳  
  
It was brutal. Phil had known it would be, but that didn't prepare him for the reality of it.  
  
Five years ago, Clint and Natasha had been children, fighting other children.  
  
Now, they were adults, fighting other adults. Killers fighting other killers.  
  
He wanted to close his eyes and shut himself away from it, but he couldn't. Not just because of the eyes on him. But because turning away from the bloodbath felt like betraying Clint.  
  
So he watched, hoping against hope that Clint would make it out. He didn't dare hope for another miracle like their last games. As much as he adored Natasha, he knew only one of them was getting out and he would have killed her himself if it had spared Clint.  
  
He couldn't even bring himself to feel bad about that.  
  
➳➳➳  
  
Clint fought. He was still young, still strong and he fought.  
  
Tributes fell one by one. Cannons sounded. It went quicker than before.  
  
Soon only a handful remained, Clint and Natasha among them.  
  
As more tributes died and his strange little family survived, Phil began to hope. He knew he shouldn’t. But he did. Somehow he knew that if it came down to the two of them this time, Natasha would die before she let Clint sacrifice himself for her. She had always said that he had more to live for than her. Phil was selfishly grateful for that, knowing that losing Clint would break him.  
  
He'd begun to think that maybe they would get through this. Losing Tasha would be hard, but he’d survive it, and he’d help Clint survive it. They would make it together.  
  
He thought it right until the male tribute from District 2 drove his spear through Clint’s back. Clint hadn’t even seen it coming, eyes wide and startled as he choked on a gasp.  
  
"You have heart," the young man, Loki, scoffed. "Too bad it has done you no good."  
  
The words were barely past his lips before Tasha had her revenge, cutting off anything else he might say with a knife to the throat. She caught Clint and held him in her arms. There was too much blood and it was obvious there was nothing to be done.  
  
"Sorry," Clint gasped, lips splashed with blood, the only color in his otherwise pale face. "I’m sorry. So sorry. Love you." The words weren't for Tasha, but she smiled softly and nodded as she brushed a hand through his hair.  
  
“It’s okay,” she promised him, playing her part to the end though the tears in her eyes were too real. "It's all right. Just go to sleep. You’ll be okay."  
  
"Love you," Clint said again and again until the words faded away and his eyes slid closed.  
  
The cannon sounded and Phil felt like he’d died there on the field.  
  
➳➳➳  
  
Natasha wins, but it doesn't feel like a victory.  
  
Phil has never hated anything more than he hates having to stand there and smile and congratulate the Gamemakers on their fine work, when all he wants to do is lay down and never get back up. When it feels as though his heart has been ripped out.  
  
If there were any fairness in life, there would be a rebellion. An outright war. Anything so he could fight and die and be with Clint again. But there isn’t, and he knows Clint would want him to look out for Tasha. So he’ll live and carry on and hate every day that he wakes up without the man he came to love more than life.  
  
"A toast," he says when they look to him for his reaction, raising a glass of wine the color of blood, grip nearly tight enough to shatter it. His smile is a bitter twist of his lips and the words taste like ash in his mouth, but Clint would have appreciated this small bit of defiance. This one bit of subversion he can have. "To President Fury and Gamemaker Stark. They have truly outdone themselves this time."


End file.
